Car and Driver
by poohblaze
Summary: The judge reads a magazine


Car and Driver

By Poohblaze

Disclaimers: Not mine, no money!

Notes: I'm actually working on a loner story. One with, you know, an actual plot! But in the meantime I had a lunch hour to kill. So it's another plotless thing. Huge thanks once again to Owlcroft for betaing so quickly and so well and for catching all my stupid mistakes.

McCormick tended to get two types of magazines. One type had covers with pictures of cars and guys in coveralls. The other type had covers with pictures of cars and girls in bikinis. This one was a coverall magazine. Serious reading. Hardcastle preferred the bikini ones.

It was technically McCormick's magazine, but magazines were kind of like postcards. They were technically mail, but there was no real privacy interest there. Had to be a precedent of some kind somewhere. And more to the point, McCormick never cared if Hardcastle read his magazines. And even more to the point, the Judge was bored out of his mind.

This is what happens when you get used to someone, Hardcastle thought as he thumbed idly through Really Expensive Racing Cars or whatever the hell it was called. You get sort of acclimated to living with all the noise and the hoo-ha and then when that someone suddenly decides to actually go and do chores, you're left at loose ends. It was as if your TV set suddenly turned itself off and went grocery shopping.

He should have been reading some of the files. But without McCormick to pester him every thirty seconds, he didn't quite feel like it. So he gave in to laziness and picked up McCormick's magazine as he sank into a chair. The magazine was full of pictures of race cars. He liked cars just fine, but he never thought too much of race cars. Fussy things. Got to treat them just right or they break down on you. He had to admit, as he browsed through the magazine, that some of them were damn good looking machines. None of 'em could hold a candle to the Coyote, though. He was kind of partial to the Coyote. Not that he'd ever tell McCormick that. The kid babied that car enough.

None of the articles looked terribly interesting unless you had a burning desire to read about fuel injection. He did recognize some names though. That was pretty strange. A year ago he would have never known what a points leader was. Now he not only recognized the name in the top slot, he recognized a few of the names on the chart. Number fourteen, he knew, had briefly roomed with McCormick. And now here he was in the chase.

There was an article on one of the drivers. Hardcastle didn't know the name. Not one of McCormick's cronies or at least not one the kid had ever mentioned. There was a picture of the guy leaning back against his car. His suit was covered with sponsor patches. "Everything's Coming Up Roses for Tony Lily." Hardcastle skimmed the article. The man was winning or placing quite a bit "thanks to my crew, the best crew in the business". He sounded like a decent guy. He sounded happy. Racing and winning and making more money than most people could imagine.

Hardcastle frowned and paged forward through the magazine, all those shiny matchbox cars and their grinning drivers. He found himself unfairly looking for something to criticize. He could almost see himself shaking the magazine at McCormick and saying, "No one thinks to ask where all this money comes from." Or "sure he smiles for the camera but he's got to make nice for his sponsors, doesn't he?" And that was just . . . . unworthy of him. Why shouldn't these men enjoy their success? They weren't hurting anyone. They were having a good time. Living their dreams.

The judge flipped more quickly through the magazine, letting the pages rustle a bit to fill some of the silence in the big house. He was paging so quickly that he almost missed it. As it was, his fingers weren't as quick as his brain and he had to thumb back through the pages to find it again. But there it was. A sidebar column called Ask Mike. Sort of like a Dear Abby for grease monkeys.

"Dear Mike: Whatever happened to the Cody Coyote? Jim R." "Dear Jim: What a great question! Martin Cody's Cody Coyote was set to take the Can Am circuit by storm. A prototype was built before Cody then ran into legal difficulties. Martin Cody is currently serving a prison term in California. Financing for the Coyote fell through and it was never produced. The prototype is in the hands of a private owner."

Hardcastle touched the article with his forefinger. Set to take the Can Am circuit by storm. He turned back a few pages. Modified Trans-Ams. Stock cars. Open-wheel racers. Some drag racers. The magazine was full of fast looking cars. The Coyote wouldn't have looked out of place among its pages. "A finely tuned race-car, not the Batmobile." Mark had said that only last month. He studied the page in front of him. Smiling men and their fast cars. Mark would not have looked out of place among the drivers.

The Judge closed the magazine, rolled it into a loose tube and tapped it against his knee. The coffee table in front of him was crowded with other magazines. "Field and Stream", the "California Bar Journal", and "Better Homes and Gardens", whose subscription department could not seem to get it through its head that Nancy Hardcastle had been dead for ten years. He put the car magazine on the table and stared at it. Then he put a "Rod and Reel" on top of it. He stared at it some more.

Disgusted with himself, Hardcastle fished the car magazine out again. He rose from his chair and took it to the entryway table where the rest of the mail was. He put it on top of everything else where it couldn't possibly be missed. Then he headed to the kitchen to make some iced tea. It was self-defense. If iced tea was available, then McCormick would drink that instead of coke. An over-caffeinated McCormick wasn't pretty.

The slamming of the door jolted him while he was still up to his elbows in Lipton. Immediately, McCormick's voice rang out, "Judge! I'm done with the hedges." As if Hardcastle wouldn't otherwise have noticed he was in the house. Hardcastle shook his head. So much for peace and quiet.

"I'm in the kitchen," he called back. And a moment later McCormick appeared, wearing cut-offs, a tank top, and that goofy floppy hat.

"Hey, tea! Thank God, it's got to be like a 110 degrees out there."

"Try 85," Hardcastle said dryly.

McCormick opened a cupboard and started reaching for glasses. "Yeah? 85? That's impressive. I've heard old people can feel the weather in their bones."

"There's a thermometer in the hallway, wise guy."

"Well, the thermometer wasn't trimming 93 acres of hedges." McCormick set the glasses down. "Hey, did you see the Parker's lawn last week? They got hedges trimmed like little animals. We should do that. Maybe little gavels. Little handcuffs."

Hardcastle's lip twitched. "Are you done?"

McCormick poured a glass of iced tea and handed it to Hardcastle before pouring one for himself. "Why? You got something?"

"There's some mail for you on the table." A look of concern flicked across McCormick's face and the judge hastily added, "nothing official looking. A magazine."

"Oh." McCormick immediately lost interest and started draining his glass. Hardcastle rotated his in his hands.

"Might want to read it," Hardcastle said.

McCormick gave him a look and then shrugged. "Later maybe. What have you been up to while I've been plowing the back forty? Find any more bad guys that need to feel the lash of justice?"

Hardcastle thought of the small stack of files on his desk. He should have been reading those this morning. "Still going through some files," he said evasively.

"Well, come on. It's been almost three weeks since someone shot at me. My reflexes will start to slow. Weren't you going to look at that Speidel guy's file? Arson, right?"

"Uh, yeah. I think he'll be next." Hardcastle paused. "Maybe you should go look at your magazine now."

McCormick set his glass down on the counter and stared at Hardcastle. "What's wrong?"

Hardcastle winced. Nancy always said he was about as subtle as a brick to the head. He sighed and put his glass down. "I need to show you something." Hardcastle walked towards the entryway with Mark at his heels. The magazine was where he left it, lying there right on top. He picked it up, found the right page and thrust it at Mark.

McCormick took it from him, a puzzled look on his face. His eyes skimmed the page. Then he frowned. Hardcastle braced himself. He was prepared to see some, what, wistfulness? Wistfulness, Hardcastle cringed at the wanderings of his mind. Such a Hallmark word. An anemic kind of word for this situation.

What he didn't expect was fury. Mark's whole body stiffened. "Of all the . . . . I do not believe this! I do _not_ believe this!" Mark rolled the magazine and slapped hard it against his left hand. "These idiots! They should know better. They _do_ know better!"

Hardcastle watched in astonishment as Mark angrily paced the short hallway. After a moment, he ventured, "What are you talking about?"

"What am I talking about? You read it!" Mark rounded on him and shook the magazine at him. "You saw. The _Cody _Coyote! What the hell is that? It's the Johnson Coyote!"

"The Johnson. . . . ." Hardcastle began.

"Damn it," Mark said and slammed the magazine back down on the table. He stared it at for a moment, and then put his hands on his hips, closed his eyes and took a deep breath. His eyes opened and he looked at the judge. "Okay, okay, sorry about that." He picked up the magazine again. "Look," he said firmly, "I'm going to the gatehouse. I need to make some phone calls. Why don't you get going on Speidel. 'Cause I gotta tell you, right now I'm really feeling the urge to bust someone. An arsonist would be perfect."

A small smile crept up on Hardcastle's face. "You want to go after a bad guy, huh?"

"Oh yeah. The badder the better."

For a moment, Hardcastle said nothing. Then he said simply, "All right. Sounds like a plan."

Mark nodded decisively and turned towards the door. Hardcastle could hear him muttering, "Cody Coyote. _Cody_ Coyote."

"Hey!" Hardcastle called.

Mark didn't stop. "What?"

"No long distance on _my_ phone."

Mark hesitated and then resumed walking. "I'll reverse the charges. That'll teach them."

Hardcastle grinned at McCormick's back. "Good idea."

"And I can talk a _lot_."

Hardcastle refrained from saying, "tell me about it." His grin widened as Mark passed through the door, headed for the Gatehouse. Then he rubbed his hands together and headed for the den. They had bad guys to catch.


End file.
